StarPoet Newsletter Vol. XI, No. XXXV

If I were born a Klingon woman,
My lovers, more than likely,
Would be somewhat rougher than they are,
Except, of course, for the wandering human
Out cruising for something different
And who, after finding GaGa unavailable,
Gets it on with the nearest Klingon babe
Once she promises not to bite too deeply.

So, all in all,  if I promise not to bite,
Or at least not to draw a lot of blood,
Perhaps we can do each other some night
At the Mark Hopkins or the Fairmont,
If the Federation still covers such things
And the gods are willing.

When your cornflakes are getting soggy unusually fast,
And your Cheerios just outright refuse to float,
Perhaps it's time to rethink the rising morning
And remember the old woman's sharp tongued warnings:

Beware of Democrats bearing gifts,
Be on guard for Republicans wearing crosses,
Watch out for messiah's hawking quick, easy solutions
And cajoling politicians on the make for your money.

So if your morning starts out all wrong,
Why don't you stop, have a good look around,
And figure out what it is that's going down;
The Ides are only a problem if you refuse
To take precautions and bet everything you have
On a single throw of a possibly loaded die.

I am quite good at coughing my lungs clear
-- it was a matter of survival when I was young
When rescue inhalers were many decades away
And the weapon of choice for croup in children
Was a hot steam vaporizer enfused with methol.
I am a survivor: mumps and measles and all the variety
Of childhood diseases now overcome by vaccination;
A wide variety of Asian flu, pneumonia and Scarlet Fever,
Polio, migraines, a broken back and asthma.  I have
Little choice but to continue to survive, fully entertained
As I am by the recurrent follies of my presidents
And the latest pennant race.

What ever I am, what ever this is,
I am little more than a bit of flesh
And a steady jagged breath,
A handful of synaptical gray matter.
I am blood and bones
And a neurological network,
Nerves, veins, muscles and arteries,
Every moment is sucked in
And then out again
In a seemingly endless continuum.
My body is not my master,
I am not time's slave;  the day will come
When I'm not present, when the world
Has moved on to other things.
But if that time is tomorrow,
Or five decades pass,
I will live my days a free woman,
Knowing my words will survive my flesh.

So you think you know me,
This glib woman who gives good verse,
This flesh that bleeds upon these virtual pages.
The truth is all you ever know is what the poet
Lets you know: her choices, her copy edits,
Her personal revelations such as they may be.
Even Sappho knew a good story when she saw one;
Who am I to clothe myself in finer truth than she?

First our bodies, then all memory,
What little fame may remain
To be claimed by others
More recently alive.

Alexander gave way to Caesar,
Caesar to Napolean,
Napoleon to Eisenhower
And beyond.

Ill-parchmented Sappho,
Once unquestioned,
Is now reduce to a little read icon,
Her successor swallowed up
By the relentless relativism
Of a raucous modernity.

There are still bunches of planets out there
Waiting for us to see,
Whole galaxies filled with living creatures
Looking back at the Milky Way;
Unless my luck changes or science breaks through,
I will die long before we greet them,
But I plan to hang on 'til we confirm their existence
And set off on the grandest voyage of all.

Along the remnants of yesterday's heavy rain,
The morning ritual of humanity repeats:
The older man in shorts and tee, running just off the sidewalk;
The Muslim couple walking and praying,
Husband in the lead, wife responding;
The neighbor and her dog quick timing down the street;
The gimpy leggéd poet limping toward her bus stop
As she waits for her left leg to wake-up.
We jog and walk around the leftover waters,
Taking due notice of the humidity
And the slowing determination of the mid-August sun
A month before the Equinox.

If I were Christian,
Or a Muslim for that matter,
Or an aging tsatskeh counting her days
Since her last period began,
Would make little difference
In the eyes of god.
Allah is YHVH is the God of Gods,
The Father Almighty,
Creator of heaven and earth
And all the planets and all the races.
Should he exist, should he not exist,
I would still sing praise to the Universe
And all the goodly creatures,
Brave and beauteous, who dwell there.

Love, Lover,
My darling wife,
Hold firm to the decades
That have been left to us;
We will not a hundred years
Be married, but thirty is
Within our grasp and I plan
To dance, with you, in your arms,
On our aniversary.